Sad Little Boy
by Gwen Brunye
Summary: Little Tate shares a secret with Nora.  The secrets only get darker and deadlier as Tate grows.  This is a collection of scenes that reveal how Tate got swallowed by the darkness. Rated M for sexual content / language.
1. Little Tate's Secret

Nora! Nora!

Yes, my child, I'm here.

I brought you cookies.

Oh, how nice. But I don't eat cookies.

How come?

Let me tell you something, Tate. Come here and sit on my lap. Oh, you are getting to be a big boy, aren't you?

I'm very tall.

Yes, you are a very tall boy.

Tate?

Uh huh.

Do you want to know a secret?

Yes!

It's a very special secret and you can't tell anyone.

Can I tell Addie?

No, you can't even tell Addie.

What is the secret?

Oh, well, now you might not believe me if I tell you.

I will! I will believe you.

Ok then I'll tell you.

A long, long time ago, long before you were born, I lived in this house. And then, Tate, do you know what happened?

What?

I died.

You died?

Yes.

How?

I don't remember.

Oh.

And then I woke up right here in this basement. So, I don't eat cookies anymore. Do you understand, Tate?

Yes.

Nora?

Hmm?

Will I die and wake up in the basement?

No, Tate. You are going to grow up.

And eat cookies.

Yes.

Nora?

Hmm?

Can you be my Mommy in the basement?

I'm already somebody's Mommy.

Who?

I have a baby. But he's gone away and I can't find him.

Oh. My daddy went away.

I see.

My mommy's very sad.

I'm sorry, Tate.

Nora, _I_ have a secret.

You do?

Yes.

What is it?

I am very sad, too.


	2. The Cold

"Look at what he did to me."

Her incantation echoes against the basement walls.

"Yes, I'm so sorry about that," Tate mumbles flippantly, reaching around her to tug the zipper of her uniform down. She's quiet now, like she always is, her eyes gazing blankly. He pulls the nurse's uniform down her arms, exposing her modest white bra. He snaps the front clasp and pulls the cotton away to reveal ample tits. He wraps his lips around a smooth brown nipple, sucks and nibbles a little. He pushes her dress down the rest of the way, removes all her undergarments. She's no help at all.

"Show me," Tate says. On cue she turns around to show him her bloody gashes. Tate traces the edges with a gentle hand.

"Look at what he did to me," she drones. Every time, he counts the wounds. He doesn't know why. He nudges her shoulders and she bends, doll like, over the dusty table, one of the few things left in the house since Constance moved out.

He puts his feet inside of hers and pushes out, spreading her wide. He undoes his jeans, pushes them down with his boxers. He strokes his half-hard cock and closes his eyes to imagine her in that virginal white uniform, climbing on top of him and lifting her skirt. She welcomes him inside of her, envelops him with moist, pulsing heat.

The vision makes him harden fully in his grasp. He opens his eyes and pushes into her now, releasing a satisfied grunt. His hands grip firmly on her hips. She makes no sound as he thrusts, hard. It is quiet but for his breathing and the steady slap of skin on skin, but it is slowly being swallowed by the silence. It surrounds him and begins to close in, so he keeps it at bay with his solitary cries. He releases a low, guttural grunt, and with each plunge inside her, he howls, pushing the silence and stillness back, savage proof to the darkness that he is there.

In his mind, she caresses his face. Her eyes, bright and curious, explore him. He imagines the delicious weight of her gaze. When he kisses her, slow and deep, she weaves her fingers through his curls. She whispers to him things meant for only him to hear, sweet, hot breath against his ear.

He comes then, hard, a brutal release. He pulls out and the cold seizes him cruelly. It rushes up and around, penetrates him until there is no boundary, and he becomes the cold.

He is the silence and the shadow.

He sinks to the floor, his head down, not able to watch her rise and dress.

"Look at what he did to me."

Tate buries his face in his hands. He can't look. Not now. When he opens his eyes that's all there will be – blood and rot and vacant eyes.

He curls up on the concrete. He will rest there in that spot a while.

But he knows he will not dream.


	3. The Eyes of the Beast

He lay against the floorboards of his new, old room, resting between sets of sit-ups. He could not believe he was here again, staring at the same cracked ceiling. He thought this house and all of its ugliness was behind him. And, Christ, now he was back at Westfield. He turned his head to look at the two shotguns lying underneath his bed. The sight of them calmed his breathing.

He heaved himself up again. With each contraction of his muscles, he exhaled in strong puffs, grunting slightly as he neared the end of his set. His ab muscles burned, but he forced them to keep working. The pain helped to clear his mind. He liked losing himself to it. At last he stopped, falling back, his core on fire. He only allowed himself a moment to catch his breath before turning over to begin his push-ups.

Finished at last with his punishing workout, he stood before the mirror to check his progress. He ran his hand over his chest and stomach, slick with sweat, noting the increased definition. He wasn't ready yet, but he would be. Soon.

He pulled a black t-shirt on, tousling his curls. He remembered then what he'd meant to check for yesterday when they were moving in. He took the chair from his desk and carried it to his walk-in closet. He set it down and stepped up, still unable to see above the high shelf. He reached up, his hand searching, until his fingers touched upon the box. He slid it to the edge of the shelf and gently brought it down, stepping off the chair. It was a black, rectangular case with a latch that he flipped up now with his thumb.

The top creaked open to reveal pictures, the ones Nora had shared with him. On top was the black and white photograph of Nora, her husband, and her baby, the one she'd lost. Tate gazed at his image, so beautiful and innocent in his white christening gown. Tate sat on his bed and pulled out the other pictures – one of the house when it was first built, no yard, only dirt. It was strange to think of this house as ever being new. Gazing at the picture now he still could not see it without its taint.

He closed the box gently and flipped the latch down. He moved to his door, listened for a moment to be sure they'd all gone to bed. The less he had to see Lawrence's fucking rodent face, the better. It was still, so he slowly opened his door and slipped silently down the hall. When he reached the attic, he paused before pulling on the ladder's string. He hoped it wouldn't squeak too badly. He tugged it and it came down with a mild whine. Tate unfolded the steps and climbed, one hand clutching the box.

He heard Beauregard's ragged breathing before his blonde head reached the opening. He placed the box on the floor and pulled himself the rest of the way up, his fatigued arm muscles shaking with the strain. He caught his breath and then crossed the dusty floorboards to check on his brother. In the moonlight from the small window, Tate watched him sleeping fitfully. The sight of Beauregard back in this place, chained like a fucking animal made Tate feel like he might hurl. He knelt down beside Beau's head. "I'm sorry," he whispered, stroking his brother's hair.

He went back to retrieve the box from where he'd placed it on the floor. He took it to his hiding place, ducking past the attic's eaves. He removed a square of wood in the wall, revealing a small hole that contained some of the treasures he'd pilfered during his childhood. He placed the box among them and sealed it up again.

Back in the hallway, he gently pushed the attic door up until it closed with a small thud. He waited in the dark a moment to confirm the hush of sleep was undisturbed. He made his way down the stairs, the moonlight filtering through the stained glass helped him find his way. At the bottom he paused to prepare himself for a visit to the lowest level of the house.

He reached for the basement door, but it unlatched before he could touch it. A rush of cold air swirled around him. The familiar smell of dust and dankness invaded his nose. If his loneliness had a smell, that was it. It was in the air that surrounded his childhood. And now here he was, back again, descending into the darkness.

He pulled the chain on a single bulb. It cast shadows among the boxes and junk Constance had thrown down there to deal with later. It was quiet with the exception of his breathing. The hair on his arms raised as his skin buzzed to detect the strange life he knew to be lurking somewhere in the shadows. He walked deeper into the basement, all his senses heightened, as if he'd done a line of coke. The charged sensation grew as he turned into a small room, faint white light seeping through the dirty window. Nora sat on an old chest, her eyes searching the room curiously.

"Nora –" Tate said gently.

She turned and searched him, unrecognizing.

"Who are you?"

"It's me, Tate."

Her eyes darted as she searched her memory. It must've come up blank because she turned away, her curiosity turning to despair.

"These are not my things," she whispered. "I don't recognize any of this." She shook her head sadly.

Tate moved to her side, careful not to startle her. He knelt down.

"Nora, I'm Tate. Remember?" She continued to shake her head slowly, her eyes fixed at a space just beyond his shoulder. "My family moved back in here." His soft voice caught on the word "family", the mockery of it twisting his gut.

"These things – they're not mine," she whimpered.

Tate knew their moving in had disturbed whatever kind of peace Nora was able to find. He placed his hand gently on hers. "And where is my baby?" she cried softly. Now she looked right at Tate, searching him for the answer. Tate looked at her sadly.

"I don't know."

She slowly turned her head, dismissing him. He pulled his hand away and left the room. He walked slowly through the cavernous basement. Why had Constance been so hell bent on returning to this place? What could've been her reason for whoring herself out for this – this temple of misery?

A scuttling in the corner interrupted his brooding. He turned cautiously towards the source of the sound. A ragged grunt beckoned him. He ventured further across the room to the darkest shadows. He crouched down slowly and waited for his eyes to adjust.

Slowly, the figure faded into his view, just a hazy outline at first, and then the savage, bloody features filling in. Its eyes met his and the flash of recognition ignited in both boy and beast. The gruesome creature heaved itself at Tate, who shot back just out of its reach. "Easy!" Tate called angrily. At the sound of Tate's voice, it retreated slightly.

Tate steadied himself, crouched down again at a safer distance, his legs ready to spring back if necessary. The creature paced back and forth on its mutilated limbs. Tate watched, feeling an odd mix of repulsion and reunion.

"I guess you'll always be here. Won't you?" he whispered to the fiend.

_If that's what you want_.

Tate gazed at the bloody hole of a mouth and clawed hands. The beast reeked of rotting flesh. Yet in his disgust, Tate realized that he _did_ want it to be here with him in this house. He wanted this thing, - this sin and pain and hate incarnate. It was so pure in its evil, Tate surged with a dark energy in its presence. It coursed through his veins.

Tate ventured closer to it. It grunted and hissed in agitation. Tate was not afraid because he realized, for the first time, that he was only looking at himself - a boy, lost and torn and wanting.

There, in the darkness, Tate vowed to make himself a sacrifice. He would give in to the beast's hunger, let it feed on him, And with this sacrifice, others would never have to realize. They would never have to see. He would save them all from the horror of ever knowing that its eyes, the eyes of the beast, are their own eyes, and theirs alone.


	4. The Light

Tate trudges towards the house, his backpack heavy with books he'll never open. Well, except for maybe one. His English teacher, Ms. Andrews, handed out copies of _The Catcher in the Rye_. He skimmed the first chapter. He thinks he might have a few things in common with Holden Caufield. He'll give it a try.

He hears a sound– a muted cry. He looks up, thinking it might be a bird. There it is again. No, it's coming from the house. He pauses, listens. Once more he hears it and his mind registers what the source must be. He hurtles the porch steps in one leap.

He pushes through the front door. There is another muffled scream, louder now that he's inside the house. Tate bolts up the stairs, but remembers he can't get to her without the key.

He turns back to find Constance standing in the hall. She glares at him defiantly. Tate jumps down the last two steps, his boots thumping the floor.

"Give me the key," he demands.

Constance tries for a little laugh. "Oh, Tate, dear, you _are_ one for drama," she drawls. "Now you know Addie needs to be disciplined," she says.

"Give me the key." He repeats the command evenly. He's a head taller than her now. He looks down at her through a half-lidded glare.

"Tate, I won't have you just barging in here when I have spent _all day_ – "

He slams his bookbag against the wall.

"GIVE ME THE FUCKING KEY!"

With a shaking hand she reaches into her pocket. He rips the key from her grasp and bounds up the stairs.

He hurries to the closet that's been transformed into Constance's little house of mirrors. He unlocks the door and swings it open to see his sister, and what seems like endless reflections of his sister, red face and swollen eyes, tear stained cheeks. She's still screaming.

"Addie, come here. It's alright now. Come here."

She quiets and looks at him, her chest heaving with sobs. He takes her gently by the shoulders and guides her out of the closet.

"Tate!" she cries, her voice hoarse. Her breath hitches with another sob.

"Tate…"

"Shhhh, Addie. Calm down. It's okay." He wraps his arms around her. She grasps on to him. He smoothes his hand over her hair.

"Mom is such a bitch, Tate!" she exclaims into his sweater.

He smiles ruefully. "You don't have to tell me."

"She won't let me play with my friends."

"Why not?"

"Just because they died in here."

"Addie – "

She pulls away from him.

"It's true, Tate! Ask Nora!"

Tate glances behind him to see if Constance is listening. He lowers his voice.

"Addie, those girls are Lawrence's daughters. She doesn't want him to find out they're still here." He wipes her tear-stained cheek with his thumb.

"I hate her!" Addie shouts.

Tate guides Addie to her room and settles her down with a Glamour magazine. She wants to learn how to be a pretty girl. He closes her door gently, and faces Constance who has appeared in the hall.

She puts on one of her sardonic smiles. Her eyes are shiny. She's unsteady in her heels.

"Well, Tate, there you go spoiling your sister again." She puts her hand up to smooth her hair. "It's your fault she's such an insufferable brat."

Tate glares.

"She's got to ponder her reflection for a while. That'll keep her from getting so uppity."

"Why don't you go pass out, Constance."

She stumbles slightly, catching herself on the banister. "It wouldn't hurt for you to spend some time in there." She gestures to the closet. "Just take a good long look at yourself," she says. "Take a good long look at that face. That beautiful face…"

She reaches to touch his cheek. He dodges her hand. "Well, that beauty is a just waste because…well you just _seethe _anger, Tate. Your eyes are black with it."

Those eyes are trained on her now with an intensity that softens her tone a bit.

"They weren't always that dark, you know," she says. "They've gone black because of the ugliness inside you."

She matches the intensity of his gaze now, her lips curled. "You're an ugly boy, Tate."

He blinks. Waits. She smiles wryly at him and struts down the hall to her room, her hips swinging like she's some fucking bell of the ball. She slams the door behind her.

A sensation, like invisible fingers, caress his cheek, turns his face to the closet. It's door opens a little wider, calling to him. He walks inside, closes the door.

The voices start to dart and dance in his brain.

_constance, constance, cocksucker, cunt, tate, taint, taint, tainted, tate, constance, cunt_

"Shhh..."

He steadies himself, closing his eyes against his reflection and sucking in deep breaths to keep the voices at bay. But they're seeping in, slithering inside, humming and hissing.

_taint, tate, tainted tate, tate is tainted, tate is tainted where's my baby, where's my baby, tate, constance kills cocksuckers, cunts, taint, tate is tainted, tate is tainted, tate, taint_

"No, no, no." he whispers, grasping the sides of his head.

_TATE IS TAINTED, TATE IS TAINTED, TATE IS TAINTED, TATE IS TAINTED_

"Get out!" he cries, "Get out of my head!"

TATE IS TAINTED! CONSTANCE KILLS COCKSUCKERS CUNTS! TAINT KILLS, TATE IS TAINTED! TATE IS TAINTED! TATE IS TAINTED!

He slams a fist into his reflection, slicing his knuckles. It shatters to the floor.

WHERE'S MY BABY, TAINT, TAINT IS COCKSUCKER, CUNT, KILL COCKSUCKER CUNT, WHERE IS BABY TATE, TATE IS TAINTED, TAINT

"Get out!"

He pummels the glass all around him until the shards crunch underneath his boots on the floor and his knuckles are torn and bleeding.

He sinks helplessly to the floor, surrounded by slivers of glass.

WHERE IS BABY TAINT, KILL COCKSUCKER CUNT, TAINT KILL, KILL BABY TATE, WHERE'S MY BABY, WHERE'S MY BABY TAINT, KILL CUNT, TATE IS TAINTED, TATE IS TAINTED, TATE IS TAINTED, TAINTED, TAINTED TATE

He lifts one of the shards, presses it to the inside of his wrist. The delicate skin breaks. He slices across, hissing at the pain. It burns, fuck, it burns, but there, there it is, the blood, hot and red and flowing. He lifts the glass and slashes himself again, the voices receding slightly. The release he feels is like coming. But it's not quite as good.

He drops the glass shard and quickly releases his cock from the confines of his jeans. He rubs his hand into the blood of his wrist and then spits into the palm. He grasps his cock with the gruesomely moistened hand and strokes until he's hard and throbbing.

He pumps desperately as the voices fade to an indecipherable hum. He's close, he's close, he's so close, teeth clench, he rises, he's rising, higher, higher, higher, yes, yes! yes! there it goes – the floor, it falls away, he's flying, he's flying! rising so high, so high, so clean, so kind, it's a light – a light, a light, oh, god, jesus, _fuck,_ the beautiful light! the beautiful…the beautiful…the beautiful…violet light…


	5. You'll Be the Sun

The cemetery gate is busted, has been for the two years Tate's been coming. It's easy to just slip through. No one visits this one. The graves are old and anyone who would mourn those in the ground are worm food themselves by now. He likes to hang out here. It's quiet and private – woods surrounding three sides. He trudges up the little hill towards the oak tree. He spots Jasmine peering around it from the other side.

"There you are. I was worried you weren't going to come."

"I have about an hour before Constance notices I'm gone."

"Did you bring the book?" she asks, settling down against a massive root.

"Yeah." He digs it out of his backpack and hands it to her. "_The Complete Stories of Edgar Allen Poe"_. She doesn't take it from him.

"What did you think?"

"It was...dark. I liked it."

"You can keep it. I don't need it anymore."

Tate shrugs. Throws it in his pack.

He sits across from her. The shade of the oak is stretching long over the ground, the late afternoon sun settling faster now that fall has come.

"So, you said you had something important to tell me."

Jasmine grins at him. Her teeth are strikingly white against her blood red lipstick. Her eyes though, lined heavily in black charcoal, aren't smiling.

"Tonight is the night!" she declares. She raises her arms up grandly to the sky.

"Tonight? Why tonight?"

"Why not?" she shrugs.

"I don't know. I just think... maybe you could just tell someone."

"Tate – "

"Like Miss Seely. Remember she said if you – "

"No, Tate. That's not happening. I already told you."

"But she could get you out of the house."

"Oh yeah, and then what? Foster care? No fucking way."

Tate pulls at the grass.

"How are you going to do it?"

She pulls up her sleeve and runs a finger up her forearm in a vertical line.

"They can't stitch it up that way." Her tone hints she's proud of herself for having thought of it.

He's quiet.

She huffs impatiently. "Come on, Tate. Don't make me regret telling you."

"In three years you can just live on your own, you know, or go to college."

"Jesus, will you listen to yourself? _Three years_. Three more years of that asshole – " She shakes her head. "No. No fucking way." She pushes up from the ground. She starts pacing. "Remember that last part from the story – what was it? 'There are moments when, something, something, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of a hell...'"

"Yeah."

"I know there's someplace better. There has to be. Or maybe there's just, I don't know, nothingness. That's better, too." She stops pacing. "And if you're smart, you'd come with me."

He'd join her in a second. All that shit he said about only three years and college and bullshit was just fear talking. She was right. He knew she was right. And it wasn't the first time it crossed his mind.

"I can't," he says quietly. "I can't leave Beau and Addie."

She sighs and sits down again. "I know. You're a good brother. Man, if I had a brother like you..." He looks at her. "Well, my life would've been a lot different."

He wishes he could do something for her. But what could he do? He's a stupid fifteen year old kid.

"So, anyway," she says, nervously tossing back her jet black hair. "I have a favor to ask you."

"Okay."

She drops her eyes to the ground.

"Well, I know you don't think I'm pretty or anything – "

"Jasmine – "

"No, Tate, it's okay. It's fine. I just, well, the favor I want to ask is if you would kiss me." She ventures a look at him now. "Because I've never been kissed... by a boy that I like."

She suddenly looks so small and sad, her anger falling away for a rare moment so that he's able to notice how big and bright her eyes can be.

"Yeah. Yeah, sure. I don't think I'm very good at it, but..."

She laughs.

"Okay well me neither, so it will be the worst first kiss in the history of the world."

"Wow. That's a lot to live up to."

"Think you can handle it?"

"I'll do my best."

They both stand, awkwardly apart for a moment. Then he reaches to put his hands on her hips. She's so slight, like a little bird. He gently pulls her to him. She raises her face and their lips meet, pressing gently, then more insistent, then parting, and it's amazing how quickly those lips find their own rhythm, the boy and the girl simply following their lead.

After a time she gently pushes him away.

"Wow." she says. "That was really awful."

"The worst."

He leans his forehead against hers, his hands lingering on her hips. The only sound is the wind in the trees.

"Okay, well, look," she says, pulling away from him. "I'm going to give you this." She digs through her bag, pulls out an envelope. He goes to take it, but she pulls it back. "You can't read it until...after."

She offers it now, but he doesn't reach for it.

"Tate, just take it. _Please_. If I leave it at the house the asshole will never give it to you. Just – take it."

He does.

"Just remember – don't read it until – "

"After," he says quietly.

"Yeah."

She shifts restlessly. "Well, I'm going to go now. I'm just going to go."

He reaches for her arm, but she shrugs him away.

"Don't," she says, her voice catching.

He watches her run down the path, the wind whipping her hair. When she reaches the gate, she turns, offers a final wave.

And then she's gone.

Tate drops to the grass. He turns the envelope around and around in his hands. The dead leaves scrabble around him. They're so pretty when they change, bursts of orange and red, but they all come to this – brittle, dead.

He carefully opens the envelope. He pulls out the letter – written in her loopy, feminine scrawl.

"_I take a walk outside_

_I'm surrounded by some kids at play_

_I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear?_

_Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin around my head_

_I'm spinning, oh, I'm spinning_

_how quick the sun can drop away_

_and now my bitter hands cradle broken glass_

_of what was everything_

_all the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything._

_all the love gone bad turned my world to black_

_tattooed all I see, all that I am, all that I'll be..._

_I know someday you'll have a beautiful life,_

_I know you'll be a sun..._ " 

_Tate, remember when you played me this song? Think about me when you listen to it. _

_Love, _

_(Oh, wow. Corny, huh? Whatever, fuck it.)_

_Jasmine_

_P.S. You are one of the good people, Tate._

He lays back in the grass. It's chilly now in the shade. The earth feels so solid under his back. He imagines it covering him, weighing him down, pushing, sinking him steadily into the darkness, the wet earth seeping in through his pores, churning his bones. He feels an ache in is chest, a yearning for it, for the safety and sureness of it.

But the wind picks up and he knows he has to go. Has to get home to make sure Addie and Beau get something to eat. Because life goes on with our without black haired girls with big sad eyes. And this tree – this tree will give shade to any asshole, even the one who rapes her. Even the one lying here now, the one who will just let her go ahead and die.

So that is the secret. The secret is to be the tree, the earth, the sky. To be a bird, drifting over it all, never touching it, never worrying it, just fly.


End file.
